


Beautiful

by duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Horror, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26748538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr/pseuds/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr
Summary: And now, the opera over, the damn Vicomte lost in an abandoned dressing room, and her, his Angel of Music here in his home… it was intoxicating. She had come with him in a perfect trance, aware enough to consent to the journey underground, but not quite enough aware of the directions they had taken to repeat them unaccompanied. Perfect, everything was following the plan.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> ITS SPOOKY SEASON

How beautiful his Christine looked, truly! In her white gown, the crimson-green-black jewels of her Hannibal costume peeking from beneath it. She was nothing short of stunning, ravishing, beautiful! Truly, there were no adjectives in any language he knew that could describe her. He knew not why he bothered. 

Sometimes he wondered what Gustave Daaé looked like. Perhaps in his endless travels he had met the man, and this was why Christine’s figure always held a hint of comfortable familiarity. No, he had seen endless people in his travels, and none could possibly compare to her. 

And her voice. Her voice! The sound of it could make angels weep and gods stop their immortal happenings to listen and sigh. He almost refused to believe his tutelage had any play in its splendor. He had only given her the barest of pointers, yet her enrapturing skill had only improved, accompanied by her presence and acting. His love for her, too, grew stronger.

Perhaps the lessons were just a subconscious ploy to hear the ethereal songs that captivated his heart, and from the seems of the performance she had just delivered, the crowds' as well. He had been there, prowling in the darkness to escape the stage lights. Even the weary stagehands had stopped their folly to watch her. Yes, the rest of the cast and crew she had captivated as well. Their fascination with her “sudden” talent infuriated him. Christine was his! Who had appreciated her singing before they ever knew her skills? Who guided her to prowess? Who defended her from ill-minded suitors? Not the Vicomte de Chagny, of course. No, Raoul would not have known what to do if Christine came to him, afraid of the suitor who had nearly assaulted her. 

The Vicomte lacked all sense of appreciation for the arts, though at the very least, he knew to appreciate her. The Phantom watched their meeting through the mirror, always watching through it, only leaving when Christine needed privacy. He was a gentleman, after all. A monster, but a gentleman. He daresay the boy was almost as obsessed with her as Erik loved her. 

Oh, how Erik jealously wished to end the Vicomte, but the loss of her childhood friend would surely harm Christine as well. He couldn’t hurt her, no matter how much he ached to remove the boy. 

And now, the opera over, the damn Vicomte lost in an abandoned dressing room, and her, his Angel of Music here in his home… it was intoxicating. She had come with him in a perfect trance, aware enough to consent to the journey underground, but not quite enough aware of the directions they had taken to repeat them unaccompanied. Perfect, everything was following the plan. 

They arrived at the banks of his home just when they should, not a single candle blown out, just as he had hoped, and now he could play her his music, show her what she could gain should she stay with him. 

As she gazed in wonder at the candlelight that made up his keep, he put his own voice to use, rising like the smoke to reach her, to bring her closer to him. Promises of music, of magic, of shadowed safety, if only she'd give up her old life. By God, he wanted her closer- No! Not close enough to see the wreck of his face, but close enough to, close enough to… his mind spun oddly in her presence. 

The hypnotic powers of the Phantom’s voice took hold of her, and reflected back at him like a mirror, pure want and ecstasy echoing and overwhelming as she stared at him through his candle starlight. Following him. Even her hazel eyes were more stunning than his own coal black. She was better than him in every way. He moved toward her, oh, she allowed him to caress her! 

Lost in the emotions, the Phantom changed direction through the maze of candelabra. His feet drew back of their own accord, overcome by her. The words of worship written in sheet music slipped from his teeth, he backed against the portcullis, his head fell against the grate, and both arms rose above his head to grab hold. She was approaching now, so close. So beautiful. 

He'd waited far too long to bring her here. 

Oh, he hoped she would agree to become his wife, to sing for him! Together they could make the most ethereal music. They could walk through the midnight park, the stars their witnesses for the marriage. He would be kind and gentle! He would not do anything she did not wish him to do. He would never, never hurt her! His voice rose with those promises, communicated behind tenor words of adoration, of undefeatable darkness. 

If she so desired, he would even walk in the sun with his fellow man! 

Christine pressed a firm hand upon his chest. Startled into a voice crack, the man looked down in confusion to the petite woman looking back at him, eyes hooded. The touch alone stirred feeling in his groin, but before his mind could catch up with his arousal, her other hand had curled around the back of his head, cradling at the base of his wig. 

His song now came fluttering in confused, shaky tones, his eyes madly searching hers for an answer while his proper mind went to war against his touch-starved body. His beautiful ingénue was certainly forward, more forward than he was comfortable.

Her lips floated to his jaw and he fell apart, the words caught in his throat. She breathed deeply, her exhale warm along the fine hairs. Too much! What if she saw his hideousness? No, he could not allow this touch so soon, no matter how much his body screamed for more. He moved to push her away before her affectionate onslaught became overwhelming, but to his further shock, her own force pushing him against the portcullis won out. 

How was she- Her lips slid to his throat, just to the right of the Adam’s apple, nuzzling his collar out of the way, and he moaned, hips thrusting without his command. _God, good God..._ His hands clutched tighter to the metal as she nosed at his neck with intimacy he had never experienced before. Is this what she wanted of him? Pleasures of the flesh? What did his minx think she was- 

His sounds of pleasure turned to a choked-out gasp, then a shout of near hysterical panic as she sunk her teeth into his neck. His arms abandoned the grate to scrabble against her futilely, then on instinct he turned to escape to the side. In an instant her arms had caged him against the portcullis, and she sank her teeth deeper, flooding his system with agony like hundreds of morphine needles at once. Blood trickled down his neck like sweat. 

His hands now went directly to her shoulders, modesty be damned, using all his weight to force away this sudden attacker, but she barely budged a foot. Christine slammed him backwards in retaliation, knocking his skull against metal for his efforts. Dazed, he barely fought as his arms were wrenched by the elbows over his head. 

The sudden pain and helplessness, the _betrayal_ , formed tears in his eyes. Before her teeth could dig deeper, his hands broke free of her grip to claw again at the front of her gown. The action proved useless. His hands instead flew to her head, pushing against the sinking teeth. To his surprise, she relented, her head pulling back to scrutinize her own handiwork, a fresh drop of warmth beading down his neck with every heartbeat, beginning to stain his shirt. 

His hand slapped against the injury, but she simply pulled it away, back over his head and wound through the grating. She looked him up and down, judging his position, pupils blown wide and expression unrecognizable. What happened to her? Her eyes were amber in the dimness. _What happened to his Christine?_

His panic grew delirious as he tried desperately to rip himself away, only for her to pin him with unnatural strength like a fly on a web. He felt her further restrain him against the bars, her legs pushing his own together and trapping them, bearing down on his squirming torso with her own, blood still steadily dripping down to spot red on her dress. She studied him as he twisted this way and that, eyes wildly searching for freedom, but finding no give. 

Terrified, he finally met her eyes, hyperventilating and twitching helplessly between her arms. No escape. Satisfied he could no longer move, her teeth again went to his throat. 

Her fingers gripped the nape of his neck and pulled his struggling form into position against her fangs. Christine sighed gently as he whimpered, then buried her inch-long teeth to the base. 

Erik swore he could feel the horrific _pop_ in his throat of the vein being punctured, then the warm agony of blood beading around her sunken canines. Christine hummed delightfully. His mouth opened in a cry. 

Why was she doing this? His Christine was perfect! She had never seemed mad to him, not during their lessons, not when she left the stage, but here she was tearing his throat out with her teeth! Why? _Why?_ God, it hurt! 

_Release me, please release me,_ he wanted to beg, but he doubted she would listen or care even if he could make his voice work beyond shouts and ragged breath. Not even in Persia had he been so defenseless.

Her fangs slid free, releasing a hot river of blood down his skin to stain his necktie and collar. He spasmed against the pain as she pulled away, her expression one of wonder, as if she had just tasted of the sweetest wine. 

Again she disappeared beneath his chin, her lips pressed firmly to his neck. He gritted his teeth as the injury flared and stung. Through the blinding hurt came the sensation of hot suction against the wound, the painfully long tug against the pierced flesh, closely followed by the audible sound of her leisurely swallowing. 

She was drinking his blood. He squeezed his eyes shut in horror at the delayed realization. What _was_ she? Rhythmically she continued the actions, over and over and over, an unending nightmare. Every drag and quaff was agonizing in its slowness, purposefully drawn out to last as long as possible, but he could feel each movement in perfect vibration against him. She groaned after a particularly unhurried pull. She was… she was _savoring him_. Bile rose in the back of his throat. 

“Chri- Christine. Christ-ine.”

Talking hurt. He wished to say more, but her next draw burned worse than a brand, and he battered weakly against her hold, a high moan escaping him. She hummed again, soothing. 

The Phantom shook manically, every deflation of his lungs leading to a wracking, cold shiver as her left hand dropped from caging him in to stroke his flank. Each gasping breath brought the scent of her rosy perfume into his mouth, intermingled with the metallic scent of blood, his head fallen to the edge of her hair. His hands would not release their death grip on the bars above. 

He had lost count trying to keep time by the movements of her throat. It had to have been minutes at least of him immobilized and her drinking, and hazily he became aware that she was slowing. His blood was surely clotting in the small punctures at the speed of ice melting. She would soon stop, she would release him, and he would be safe. 

He drifted, bleary and delirious, the muscles in his limbs beginning to numb and relax as the tension quite literally bled from his body. Christine's hand ceased its soft movements and rose to gently tilt his pliant chin far up. Blissful lightheadedness was taking over. Her lips left with a sound almost like a kiss, and she pulled away, her head ducking under and around to the other side of his neck. 

Her fangs touched his left side, hovering right over where he knew the other vessel ran. _No,_ the refusal cried far in the back of his mind. _No, no, no._

His eyes shot open as her teeth dug hard into the other side of his throat, sliding off the vein and hitting a nerve in his neck instead, and with teary vision he glimpsed the flames of candles and the stalactite ceiling momentarily go white. Red-hot pain shot up and down his spine. His throat grew raw with screaming. His weakened body tried to pull away from the abuse, only for her to gently bring him back to catch the dripping blood. 

He only jolted minutely when the teeth slid out with a slick sound and a frustrated huff, then drove in again, accompanied by a much larger rush of blood. While his right side grew damp with remaining dribbles of crimson, warmth flooded down his left, making it to his trousers. Cold numbness settled deep in his gut. Her mouth surrounded the new tear, fully cutting off the fountain of the wound to drink from it. Draw the blood in, five seconds until it filled her mouth, then swallow it down. Again, and again... He laid his head back against the portcullis. 

His… Christine. A creature of the night. Of nightmares. Of storybooks. Of mythology he himself was responsible for debunking, and now Christine… was this why she started arriving so early in the morning and leaving so late in the afternoon? …How could he not have known? The two-way mirror lacked silver backing. He watched her every moment, except, oh, except when she was indecent or at her apartment. It left enough time to cover her neck in concealer, he thought, if that was indeed how such beasts could be identified. …Beasts. That word should never be applied to her. Funny, how he had thought himself the worst monster, hiding in the shadows with his horrific visage, and now she of all people had proven him wrong. Once again he was a fake compared to her. 

His knees gave out beneath him. She went down as well, her lips still latched to his neck, lost in the taste, apparently. Erik shivered uncontrollably as darkness encroached on his vision. Strength was leaving him, limbs growing heavier, the world of the lair spinning into haziness. God, she was a parasite on his throat, but he couldn’t hate her. He could not bring himself to hate his Christine. 

She removed the mask from his face, out of her way. His numb hands would not cooperate enough to stop her, and his voice would not work to speak his objections. Did it matter, though? Maybe if she saw how hideous he was, she would stop her assault, and it would stop hurting. It was very nice to be held, though. 

She didn’t even look up at him. 

Blackness overtook his vision. It could have been hours, or months, or years, but finally she pulled off of his sticky neck, another rush of warmth staining his outfit in her absence, and his home drifting back into focus with the pain. With no support, he dropped onto his side, shoulder hitting the wet ground. 

His glazed, heavy eyes barely recognized as her fangs swung back into the roof of her mouth. Like a snake, his dreary mind supplied. Needle-shaped, thick as a small quill, but not thick enough that one stabbed would bleed out swiftly. That must be the only reason he had not died in seconds. Brilliant devices, to prolong agony and keep manageable the… the _feeding_. 

His vision slowly blinked again… When were there two Christines? When did Christine wear such dark lipstick? Apparently there were multiple new things he was learning tonight. She put on far too much, it had run down her chin. That wasn’t how lipstick worked, was it? Everything was spinning, again, spinning in darkness, intensely now. He shut his eyes from a bout of nausea, quivering. He wished he hadn’t taken off his cloak. 

Her piercing gaze regarded him for a moment, then shifted, and with a shudder Christine was suddenly looking down at him with horror. She shouted, then pulled his trembling form, somehow even paler and colder than he started, into her lap and rambled manically. In a blurry trance he wanted to cover the deformed side of his face. Vision escaped him before he could. Her hands placed futile pressure on his neck, leaving her palms soaked red in seconds. 

Breath caught in her throat as she saw how his own was bruised and maimed. By her teeth. By her. 

She whispered how she couldn’t help it, that it wasn’t really her, that she hadn’t wanted to, she couldn’t stop. About how this could work out, how they could make this work, how it would be okay, she would explain when he came back, and she was so, so, sorry. She cursed herself and sobbed over his dying corpse, giving up the injuries to run her hands through his hair. What was she apologizing for? His deprived mind knew not what she was speaking of. The world spun, spun, spun. The comfort was so very pleasant. He'd never been comforted before. 

His shocked mind fully faded to darkness and glowing candlelight, and her. At least Christine’s beautiful face and beautiful voice were excellent things to die to. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Phantom: *Appears*
> 
> Vampire!Christine: Delicious Finally some good fucking food
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and aren't too mad at me. Kudos and comments are always appreciated, if you did!


End file.
